


won't you (just hold my hand)

by notcaycepollard



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hands, PTSD/trauma responses, Post-Maveth, Skoulson Romfest 2k16, mentioned Daisy/Lincoln
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 11:32:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5783794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skoulson RomFest 2k16 DAY 5 - 22 January - hands</p>
            </blockquote>





	won't you (just hold my hand)

"Can't sleep?" 

Coulson jumps at the noise, glares at Daisy where she's sitting at the kitchen table.

"You startled me," he says, and she shrugs, dips her brush into her bottle of nail polish and sweeps a stroke of cherry red across her index fingernail.

"I'm sitting right here. Not trying to hide. You would have seen me, if you were paying attention."

"Yeah," he says after a pause. "Okay."

"So," she says again. "Can't sleep?"

"Can't. Don't want to. Split the difference." He pauses again, distracted by her neat movements as she paints each nail. What was he in the kitchen for? He can't remember. "I'm making a cup of tea," he says eventually. "I, uh..."

"Sure," Daisy agrees, although he hasn't offered. "Tea would be nice. Jemma has some great apple-chamomile she won't mind us drinking."

Coulson makes the tea, trying not to glance at Daisy as he does so. He hasn't seen much of her after Maveth. He'd almost think she was deliberately keeping out of his way, except he knows she's not that petty. She's got her team now, keeping her busy. And-  _Lincoln_.

"Not with Mr Campbell tonight?" he asks, setting down the mugs of tea, and then winces at his own bluntness. Daisy glances up, her mouth falling open in surprise.

"We don't live in each others' pockets," she tells him. "I needed a night to myself. Field reports to catch up on." She looks meaningfully at the manila folders sitting on the table in front of her, inspects a nail thoughtfully. "And I couldn't sleep, either." Coulson nods, sits down opposite her, sips his tea. It's still too hot, but Daisy's right, it's nice. The heat of the mug in his hand, the steam, the sharp scent of nail polish, it's centering him more than he's been in days. If he concentrates, he can even forget the noise Ward made when he died.

"Why can't you sleep?" It's easier to ask Daisy questions than to try and keep up a conversation any other way, he thinks, and wishes it wasn't.

"Oh," Daisy says vaguely. "This and that. You know. Everything's just so much."

"Yeah," Coulson agrees. "Yeah."

"I really am sorry about Rosalind," Daisy tells him after a moment, touches her fingertips to the back of his hand, and Coulson winces again.

"Can we not..." he says. "Sorry, I mean, I just. Can we not?"

"Yeah," Daisy says. "Of course. Sorry I mentioned it." She doesn't pull her hand back the way she did last time, though, leaves her fingers resting against his hand, strokes his knuckles very lightly. It's  _nice_ , the way the tea is nice, the way the glow of the kitchen lamp and Daisy's face and her sweater falling soft off one shoulder is nice, and Coulson just wants to rest in it for the next hundred years.

"Hey," she says eventually. "Will you do my other hand?"

"I..." Coulson says, looks at the little bottle, the brush, Daisy's bare nails on her left hand. "Okay. I guess."

"Thanks." She pushes the nail polish across the table to him, drinks a mouthful of her own tea and sets it down, lays her hand flat. "I could never do the left hand properly. Even before, you know, the whole quake powers thing."

"Well, it's been a while for me. I'm a bit rusty." He drags the brush across her thumbnail, fills it in, makes sure it's smooth.

"You look alright to me," Daisy murmurs, watching him continue on her index and middle fingers. It's not as hard as he'd worried it would be, actually, although he remembers using his left hand as a balancing surface, the warmth of Audrey's palm resting over the back of his hand. He finishes the first coat, leans down, blows air across Daisy's fingertips.

"Nice color," he tells her, because it is. She smiles, evaluates her hands.

"It figures, you'd like this color. Lola red. And cherry licorice." He blushes for what seems like no reason, but Daisy mentioning those things, it feels too, too intimate. His fingers are resting lightly against the back of her hand. She's looking at their hands, the way they touch, and her eyes are very thoughtful.

"Probably-" he tries to say, but his throat is dry. He has to swallow the rest of his tea before he can finish. "Probably ready for the next coat, right?" 

"Yeah," Daisy says. "Probably." Neither of them say anything as he paints the second coat, and in the silence of the kitchen so late at night, their breathing is loud. When he finishes, he picks her hand up, holds it up to the light, checks each nail for streaks, and then lifts it closer to his mouth so he can blow on her fingertips again to dry the polish. Daisy's fingers curl into his hand, and she makes little circles with the pad of her finger against his palm. His breath stutters, just a little.

"Hey," Daisy says. "I could do yours."

"I'm good," Coulson tells her, smirks at the thought. "Not sure it would suit me."

"Hmm," she murmurs, squeezes his hand, and without thinking he pulls it to his mouth, presses his lips against her knuckles. "Oh," Daisy breathes at the touch of his mouth to her skin. "Oh. Coulson.  _Phil_."

"Sorry," he tells her, lets go of her hand hastily. "Sorry, I shouldn't-" She touches her fingertips to his lips, silencing him, leaves them there for a long moment.

"Phil," she says again, picks up his hand, kisses his palm, the inside of his wrist, the pads of his fingers. Her mouth is warm and soft and gentle, and Coulson closes his eyes, lets her touch his hand to her cheek. 

"Where do we go from here?" he asks quietly, the words slipping past her fingers still resting against his mouth, and Daisy sighs.

"I don't know," she admits, drops her hand away. "I love you. I know that. But I don't know."

"Okay," Coulson says. "That's- okay." 

"I should go to bed," Daisy says, doesn't move, and Coulson opens his eyes, looks across the table at her, slides his hand from her cheek to stroke his fingers gently down the line of her jaw. "Oh," she says again, and then she does move, rises out of her chair, gathers up her folders and pauses with her hand on the nail polish bottle. Coulson stands up, doesn't reach out, just looks at Daisy a little more, and she makes a desperate noise in the back of her throat.

"Fuck," she says, "Coulson, fuck, I-" and launches herself at him, wraps her hand around the back of his neck and pulls him into a kiss that feels blazing and painful. "It's-" she says, breaking away. "I mean, it, this- god, I just..." and kisses him again, softer, her tongue sliding against his in a way that's unbearably intimate.

"Daisy," Coulson whispers into her mouth, and she sighs against him, traces kisses down his jaw, presses her mouth to the side of his throat. He lifts his hand, tangles it in her hair, and she makes another desperate noise, catches her teeth on his skin.

"I shouldn't," she says, " _we_ shouldn't, I mean, I'm not in love with Lincoln but I've never been that person, Phil." She's right. Daisy has too much integrity for that, Coulson thinks, even as he wants her to keep kissing him for the rest of their lives, to never stop, to kiss until their lips are swollen and they're tangled so tight in each other they can't pull apart again.

"You just need me to be your friend right now?" he asks, and she laughs a little shakily, nods, rests her head on his shoulder. He slides his hand from her hair down to her shoulderblade, the small of her back, rests it there for a moment, and Daisy in his arms, Daisy's hands sliding up under his shirt to brush over his skin, it feels so right he wonders all over again how he's never let himself do this before now.

 "Yeah," she agrees, "yeah, Phil, but just- just give me time, okay? Don't push me away again."

He doesn't think it would be possible. Not now that he doesn't just know the way Daisy's hand feels over his but how her fingers brush soft on his lips, how his palm rests against her cheek, how her hair catches in his hand. He'll give Daisy all the time she needs, if it means they can fit their lives together the way their hands have fit for so long.


End file.
